I love Manny Ramirez. I will be grateful to him and for him for the rest of my baseball-infatuated life. But enough is enough.
In the winter of 2000-2001, Manny parlayed his wildly successful years with the Cleveland Indians into an eight year, $160 million contract with the Boston Red Sox. The contract, negotiated by former agent Jeff Moorad-now the President of the Arizona Diamondbacks-included two additional seasons (2009 and 2010) at club options for $20 million each season. What that means is that at the end of the contract (this offseason), the Red Sox would have the ability to pick up the option for next year at an already agreed upon price, or decline it and make Manny a free agent again. And if that option were exercised for 2009, team and player would then go through that process again prior to the 2010 season.
Manny has always been eccentric. Listen to him, look at him, watch his visits to the Green Monster during pitching changes; the guy is put together differently from most people, and that's ok. The problem isn't those eccentricities. It's the other stuff. Like playing when it suits him. Like screaming for a trade every summer for the last six years. Like careless play in left field. Like turning doubles into singles by assuming they would be home runs. Like not even making it half-way to first on infield grounders, several of which have been kicked by the infielders over the years.
Oddly, for their $20 million per season, the Sox expected Manny to play hard. Had they reacted more aggressively early on when he didn't, things might not have reached this point. But they didn't, and they have.
Manny knocked down the Sox' Social Security-eligible traveling secretary when the man couldn't provide all of the complimentary tickets that Manny wanted for friends and family on this summer's road trip to Houston. That's free tickets, for this multi-multi millionaire's family and friends.
Manny made his annual pitch to be traded.
Manny called the Sox ownership underhanded and deceitful.
Manny took himself out of the lineup against the Mariners in the last game of a long road trip, complaining of a sore knee. Understandable for a 36 year old player.
Manny stayed out of the lineup in the first game of a home series against the New York Yankees. Unforgivable for a Red Sox player.
Manny was sent by the club for MRIs on both knees, and after they came back negative for any damage, was told that he would play the rest of the Yankee series or face suspension. Only then did he decide he was fit to play.
Manny shot off his mouth to ESPN about his desire for a trade.
Manny then complained that the Red Sox didn't "deserve a player like me." He likened himself to Nomar Garciaparra and Pedro Martinez, other past stars, Manny alleged, who had been mistreated by the Sox when they were on the way out of town. Reality check: Nomar had an unpleasant departure in 2004 because he also developed an inability to play when it didn't suit him. Pedro's departure was amicable; no one in Red Sox nation had anything bad to say about Petey.
What has Manny in such a snit is the fabulous work of the agent who replace Jeff Moorad: Scott Boras. Boras has one basic problem with Manny's situation: Boras ain't getting paid. The agent's fee for the current contract still goes to Moorad's former agency. If the Sox picked up one or both years of options they hold on Manny, Boras still doesn't get paid. So Scotty just doesn't care how much money was available to Manny from the Red Sox.
Boras has engineered a situation that is certainly going to cost Manny Ramirez millions of dollars. No sober GM or owner, not even Hank Steinbrenner, is going to give more than $20 million dollars per year to a temperamental, seemingly unreliable and maybe even unstable, declining 36 year old former superstar. If he gets more than $10 to $12 million he will be very fortunate. But then again, Boras will get paid. And that's what all of this is about.
Boras has, again, badly served a client. He cost Alex Rodriguez a small fortune last winter with the stunt he (Boras) pulled, opting out of the previous contract ARod had signed. Alex only came out of it as well as he did because he took a break from visiting Madonna's apartment, went hat in hand to Hal Steinbrenner, and apologized for following Boras' advice. Oh, yeah, he fired Boras in the process, too. Prince Hal then took Rodriguez back, at a lower salary and fewer benefits than the opted-out-of contract had contained.
It is a shame that Manny is so immature and/or foolish that he can't seen what is about to happen to him. And he's done it all to himself. At Boras' encouragement.
Sadly, it's time for Manny to go.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Elite is Bad?
To say that our little political process sometimes boggles the mind is an obvious exercise in understatement. Barack Obama is being labeled an elitist. Sneeringly, critically, insultingly declared an elitist!
Stupid me, I thought elite was good.
My home town sure thinks so. Compare the attendance figures between the woebegone Grizzlies and the National Runnerup Tigers. Michael Heisley's highly paid professionals can only dream of the passion and support routinely heaped upon John Calipari's college boys. Think about the problems that the Redbirds have had drawing flies for the last few, losing, years. And why more of us are finding our way to the beautiful park at Third and Union this year. Amazing what a pennant race does for putting butts in seats.
Consider my little area of expertise. The strongest years that churches tend to have are those when a building is being constructed and right after...in short, the growing, successful years. What moves people to move? Not enough kids here for my children to have a program. Not enough people in the choir for me to sing with. More competent (ie more highly paid) preacher at the new church.
We like success. We like to associate with the best.
Not sure? Who do you want doing your bypass surgery? Dr. Top-of-the-Profession, or one repeatedly sued for malpractice? Yeah, me too!
But then comes politics.
There is no surer demonstration of the political genius/innate evil of Karl Rove than the fact that he managed to make just enough people in this country believe that it would be better to have everybody's dopey, lovable cousin as President than two of the most able, highly intelligent, accomplished people ever to run for the office: Al Gore and John Kerry. Just enough, that is, that any attempt to have the true results of the 2000 and 2004 elections was doomed to look like whining or sour grapes.
We are in that same position again.
John McCain has lived an honorable life. He has demonstrated his personal bravery in ways that few Americans (me obviously included) can even begin to understand. But for John McCain to turn to the politics of Karl Rove to find his path into the White House would be laughable if it were not so disgusting.
McCain's campaign is labeling Obama an elitist?
Obama grew up a biracial child in America. McCain grew up the son and grandson of admirals in the US Navy.
Obama was raised by a single mother. McCain's significance was understood even by the North Vietnamese captors who held him all those years.
Obama skipped a ridiculously high paying job in a corporate law firm to go work in the slums of Chicago's South Side as a young man. McCain married the beer heiress.
And Obama is elitist?
Let's not dicker over definitions.
In this election, Barack Obama is clearly the elite candidate. That means he is clearly the better candidate.
I respect McCain. But he is a Republican. He is of the party that has wrecked our economy fighting an unjust war in Iraq. He is of the party that has allowed the oil interests to rip off the whole nation. He is of the party that has extended tax breaks to those who just don't need them, while shifting the National Debt onto the shoulders of those already carrying more than their share.
And he wants to further Bush's policies.
And, while I dearly love my parents, McCain is older than either of them. And I don't want Mom or Dad running the country.
Obama is about the future. He has a vision about where we need to go as a country. At this point, I'm ready to try something new. What we've been up to ain't been that great.
And I want an elite President. For a change.
Stupid me, I thought elite was good.
My home town sure thinks so. Compare the attendance figures between the woebegone Grizzlies and the National Runnerup Tigers. Michael Heisley's highly paid professionals can only dream of the passion and support routinely heaped upon John Calipari's college boys. Think about the problems that the Redbirds have had drawing flies for the last few, losing, years. And why more of us are finding our way to the beautiful park at Third and Union this year. Amazing what a pennant race does for putting butts in seats.
Consider my little area of expertise. The strongest years that churches tend to have are those when a building is being constructed and right after...in short, the growing, successful years. What moves people to move? Not enough kids here for my children to have a program. Not enough people in the choir for me to sing with. More competent (ie more highly paid) preacher at the new church.
We like success. We like to associate with the best.
Not sure? Who do you want doing your bypass surgery? Dr. Top-of-the-Profession, or one repeatedly sued for malpractice? Yeah, me too!
But then comes politics.
There is no surer demonstration of the political genius/innate evil of Karl Rove than the fact that he managed to make just enough people in this country believe that it would be better to have everybody's dopey, lovable cousin as President than two of the most able, highly intelligent, accomplished people ever to run for the office: Al Gore and John Kerry. Just enough, that is, that any attempt to have the true results of the 2000 and 2004 elections was doomed to look like whining or sour grapes.
We are in that same position again.
John McCain has lived an honorable life. He has demonstrated his personal bravery in ways that few Americans (me obviously included) can even begin to understand. But for John McCain to turn to the politics of Karl Rove to find his path into the White House would be laughable if it were not so disgusting.
McCain's campaign is labeling Obama an elitist?
Obama grew up a biracial child in America. McCain grew up the son and grandson of admirals in the US Navy.
Obama was raised by a single mother. McCain's significance was understood even by the North Vietnamese captors who held him all those years.
Obama skipped a ridiculously high paying job in a corporate law firm to go work in the slums of Chicago's South Side as a young man. McCain married the beer heiress.
And Obama is elitist?
Let's not dicker over definitions.
In this election, Barack Obama is clearly the elite candidate. That means he is clearly the better candidate.
I respect McCain. But he is a Republican. He is of the party that has wrecked our economy fighting an unjust war in Iraq. He is of the party that has allowed the oil interests to rip off the whole nation. He is of the party that has extended tax breaks to those who just don't need them, while shifting the National Debt onto the shoulders of those already carrying more than their share.
And he wants to further Bush's policies.
And, while I dearly love my parents, McCain is older than either of them. And I don't want Mom or Dad running the country.
Obama is about the future. He has a vision about where we need to go as a country. At this point, I'm ready to try something new. What we've been up to ain't been that great.
And I want an elite President. For a change.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Vacation Matters
Meant one way, we had a great time. We didn't leave town but for one shopping excursion at the Mall formerly known as Opryland. As we are at the door of enjoying her son, my daughter and my future son-in-law in education beyond high school and a new grandchild just a few months away, we couldn't afford it. So we enjoyed our fair city. The Memphis Redbirds are better than they've been in years, even with that pesky team up the river taking our best players off and on all summer. The city music scene--no, not that Beale Street crap; the REAL Memphis music--is thriving and readily available. My supervisor's scrapbooking and my MLB Extra Innings package provided us with glad diversions from what we normally do, where we normally go, and what we normally think about. And that's the point.
The other meaning of vacation matters is that a vacation really does matter. I never took more than a one week break until about six years ago. That was the time when a valued friend (you know who you are) shoved an article into my crowded hands that explained in blunt medical and psychological terms just why it is that we can't do the same thing all the time. I needed that. Now, I take three weeks. That period allows disengaging, rest and renewal. It takes time to change gears, reorient and just plain think on different things.
I am in a profession that attracts insecure people and cultivates insecurities in the strongest people. We are afraid that our parishoners will find out they can get by without us, or that they will like a fill-in's preaching better than ours. I have actually been told by colleagues that they invite the worst pulpit people they can find, so that they'll look good when they get home. Wow! Does it even require saying that we can't be at our best with all that garbage running around in our heads and hearts? And we can't be at our best when we are torched and running on fumes, either.
It was time for me. I was to the point of dreading planning that next service, that next sermon. I was in need of re-creation, refreshment, reenergizing. And this break has provided all of that. I'm looking forward to getting back in the morning. I'm ready to celebrate Holy Communion next Sunday. I'm eager to sit with the children, and preach to those who don't go to children's church. But none of that would have been the case without the vacation time well spent.
I would encourage my sisters and brothers in the clergy to take your break. We are protected at this point: the Conference guidelines call for legitimate vacation time. Take advantage of them. If need be, have your Superintendent explain it to your Pastor-Parish Committee. It is simple. They will get a better you all year by being without you for a few weeks. I testify out of my own experience. Amen!
The other meaning of vacation matters is that a vacation really does matter. I never took more than a one week break until about six years ago. That was the time when a valued friend (you know who you are) shoved an article into my crowded hands that explained in blunt medical and psychological terms just why it is that we can't do the same thing all the time. I needed that. Now, I take three weeks. That period allows disengaging, rest and renewal. It takes time to change gears, reorient and just plain think on different things.
I am in a profession that attracts insecure people and cultivates insecurities in the strongest people. We are afraid that our parishoners will find out they can get by without us, or that they will like a fill-in's preaching better than ours. I have actually been told by colleagues that they invite the worst pulpit people they can find, so that they'll look good when they get home. Wow! Does it even require saying that we can't be at our best with all that garbage running around in our heads and hearts? And we can't be at our best when we are torched and running on fumes, either.
It was time for me. I was to the point of dreading planning that next service, that next sermon. I was in need of re-creation, refreshment, reenergizing. And this break has provided all of that. I'm looking forward to getting back in the morning. I'm ready to celebrate Holy Communion next Sunday. I'm eager to sit with the children, and preach to those who don't go to children's church. But none of that would have been the case without the vacation time well spent.
I would encourage my sisters and brothers in the clergy to take your break. We are protected at this point: the Conference guidelines call for legitimate vacation time. Take advantage of them. If need be, have your Superintendent explain it to your Pastor-Parish Committee. It is simple. They will get a better you all year by being without you for a few weeks. I testify out of my own experience. Amen!
Vacation Matters
Meant one way, we had a great time. We didn't leave town but for one shopping excursion
Monday, July 21, 2008
Sunday Night at Huey's
If you know Memphis, and I have no idea how you found my little dog and pony show here if you don't, you know about Huey's. For 873 consecutive years now, Huey's has been voted Best Burger in the Flyer's Best of Memphis annual polling. (Sadly, we lost the founder and owner of Huey's, Thomas Boggs, this year. Tom was one of our best corporate citizens, the kind every businessperson should be.)
On various Sunday nights, mostly at Huey's Downtown (Third at Union), but occasionally at Huey's Midtown (Madison at Tucker), DiAnne Price and Her Boyfriends hold court. Yes, I've written about DiAnne and her band before. You need to hear it again. Trust me.
(Disclaimer: DiAnne has been my friend for 17 years. We worked together for seven of those years. That friendship influences my opinion of her performing not one iota. This is Music, people! Friendship with Your Humble Blogger gets you nothing!)
DiAnne Price (vocals and piano), Tim Goodwin (electric and upright bass), Tom Lonardo (drums and percussion) and Jim Spake (soprano and tenor saxophone) are, plain and simple, the most accomplished musicians in Memphis. Don't trust me? How about some credentials: Goodwin and Lonardo are both professors in the University of Memphis music department; Spake's discography is utterly mindboggling-check it out at jimspake.com; and DiAnne won Memphis Magazine's Best Female Vocalist award in their music poll for so many consecutive years that they retired the category! They are the best.
And they are the best at everything. Blues, Jazz, Standards, they've got it. Covers and originals. Live and on any of their five cds. The only problem with the recordings: no cd can capture what they deliver live.
One of the mysteries of Life in River City: why are people like these playing in a hamburger restaurant? For the same reason, I guess, that Rufus Thomas was sort of a joke here in town, but has a civic park named in his honor in a city in Italy. For the same reason that B.B. King always plays at his local club to a number of empty seats.
I don't know what that reason is, by the way. I've heard several reflections on the matter. Memphians have so great a musical heritage that we've become jaded. Too many terrific active musicians. Downtown's dangerous. Too far to drive. And downhill from there.
I tend to think that it's a problem with priorities. Music's intrinsic value to life cannot be overstated. Meanwhile, we've done everything possible to devalue music: removed it from school curricula, stopped learning to play instruments since everyone can operate a cd player, even making a mess of recording now with all levels being pinned to the maximum possible volume.
Most people at this point have never heard the gentle fade into night of Mahler's Ninth Symphony, most of the fun that the Beatles and George Martin had with the endings of any numbers of their songs, the plaintive sigh of Robert Johnson in Hellhound on My Trail, the glorious work of John Pizzarelli's hands on a guitar. But I digress.
Unless you are such a vegan that you cannot be in a place where meat is being served (and my niece is one, and still loved the show!), then you really should make time to check the Huey's website (hueyburger.com, follow the Live Music link), find when DiAnne is scheduled, and show up. I unreservedly guarantee that you will be glad you did!
On various Sunday nights, mostly at Huey's Downtown (Third at Union), but occasionally at Huey's Midtown (Madison at Tucker), DiAnne Price and Her Boyfriends hold court. Yes, I've written about DiAnne and her band before. You need to hear it again. Trust me.
(Disclaimer: DiAnne has been my friend for 17 years. We worked together for seven of those years. That friendship influences my opinion of her performing not one iota. This is Music, people! Friendship with Your Humble Blogger gets you nothing!)
DiAnne Price (vocals and piano), Tim Goodwin (electric and upright bass), Tom Lonardo (drums and percussion) and Jim Spake (soprano and tenor saxophone) are, plain and simple, the most accomplished musicians in Memphis. Don't trust me? How about some credentials: Goodwin and Lonardo are both professors in the University of Memphis music department; Spake's discography is utterly mindboggling-check it out at jimspake.com; and DiAnne won Memphis Magazine's Best Female Vocalist award in their music poll for so many consecutive years that they retired the category! They are the best.
And they are the best at everything. Blues, Jazz, Standards, they've got it. Covers and originals. Live and on any of their five cds. The only problem with the recordings: no cd can capture what they deliver live.
One of the mysteries of Life in River City: why are people like these playing in a hamburger restaurant? For the same reason, I guess, that Rufus Thomas was sort of a joke here in town, but has a civic park named in his honor in a city in Italy. For the same reason that B.B. King always plays at his local club to a number of empty seats.
I don't know what that reason is, by the way. I've heard several reflections on the matter. Memphians have so great a musical heritage that we've become jaded. Too many terrific active musicians. Downtown's dangerous. Too far to drive. And downhill from there.
I tend to think that it's a problem with priorities. Music's intrinsic value to life cannot be overstated. Meanwhile, we've done everything possible to devalue music: removed it from school curricula, stopped learning to play instruments since everyone can operate a cd player, even making a mess of recording now with all levels being pinned to the maximum possible volume.
Most people at this point have never heard the gentle fade into night of Mahler's Ninth Symphony, most of the fun that the Beatles and George Martin had with the endings of any numbers of their songs, the plaintive sigh of Robert Johnson in Hellhound on My Trail, the glorious work of John Pizzarelli's hands on a guitar. But I digress.
Unless you are such a vegan that you cannot be in a place where meat is being served (and my niece is one, and still loved the show!), then you really should make time to check the Huey's website (hueyburger.com, follow the Live Music link), find when DiAnne is scheduled, and show up. I unreservedly guarantee that you will be glad you did!
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Your Winner: Josh Hamilton!
Seems I've been a bit short on baseball lately. And since that was the premise for the whole deal, let's try to correct things, shall we?
The (sponsor's name not reported on principle) Home Run Derby was earlier this evening. Justin Morneau, the outstanding young first baseman of the Minnesota Twins won, qualifying for the final round and hitting more out at that moment. But the real thrill of the evening, in more ways than one, was provided by Josh Hamilton of the Texas Rangers.
Hamilton had the single greatest round in the history of the Derby. He hit 28 out in round one. He hit so many that he didn't have to hit in the second round. He took a few swings to keep loose, but he didn't have to numerically. His pitcher was a 71 year old man, Clay Counsil, from back home in North Carolina. Mr. Counsil has the baseball sickness. He has volunteered to help generations of kids learn the game all his life. Hamilton rewarded the gentleman's decency and kindness by taking him along to The House that Ruth Built for only the second time. Mr Counsil's first visit was the day that Don Larsen pitched a perfect game against the Dodgers in the 1956 World Series. Magic attends Mr. Counsil's visits to The Stadium.
They were a magic team. Josh Hamilton's opening round was awe inspiring. But tonight's blasts aren't even close to the best story about young Mr. Hamilton. Not even close.
Josh Hamilton was the first pick in the country in the 1999 draft. The then-Devil Rays took him. And he took his $4 million signing bonus and lost his mind. Some reports say that it took as many as 8 trips to rehab to help him find his way. And then he found God. Or, more properly put, he realized God was with him.
After three years of nothing related to baseball whatsoever, Hamilton started back. In this Roy Hobbs-comes-to-life story, the kid flew to the Majors. Tampa may regret it now, but can anyone blame them for being relieved when the Reds took him off their hands in the Rule 5 draft a couple of years ago? Then it was a decent year in Cincy, and a trade to Texas for Edinson Volquez. It really is cool when trades help both teams.
Now, Volquez is in the discussion for the National League's Cy Young Award, and Hamilton probably heads the list at this moment for the American League's Most Valuable Player Award.
Rick Reilly made sure, on the Worldwide Leader's broadcast of the Home Run Derby, that everyone knew that Josh's problem was with heroin. If he mentioned it once, he named it ten times. As usual, the greater insight was delivered by the inimitable Peter Gammons. He said that the great thing about Josh Hamilton's story is that we don't live in Nancy Reagan's world. (You know, "Just Say No!" A load of crap in the '80's; just the same today) We live in a world where a lot of kids are in trouble. And Josh Hamilton's is the kind of story that can inspire other young people who've lost their way to get back on track. Josh works for that every day out of gratitude to those who have helped him. Gammons always hits the nail on the head.
You're the winner, Josh! I don't really care how many homers you hit, or how many any of the other great players hit tonight. You're winning the battle every single day. You're smart enough to travel every step with a helper to be there when you feel those old pulls. You're dedicated enough to not put those who care about you in those old positions any more.
Reilly whined incessantly about your tattoos tonight, how they embarass you now, how it's just too physically painful to have them removed. Don't worry about them. Let them be markers for where you were, and where you are, and where you will never be again. Let them testify to the possibilities. Wear them as badges of honor and accomplishment.
And keep winning the game! You know, the Big One. Life.
One day at a time.
The (sponsor's name not reported on principle) Home Run Derby was earlier this evening. Justin Morneau, the outstanding young first baseman of the Minnesota Twins won, qualifying for the final round and hitting more out at that moment. But the real thrill of the evening, in more ways than one, was provided by Josh Hamilton of the Texas Rangers.
Hamilton had the single greatest round in the history of the Derby. He hit 28 out in round one. He hit so many that he didn't have to hit in the second round. He took a few swings to keep loose, but he didn't have to numerically. His pitcher was a 71 year old man, Clay Counsil, from back home in North Carolina. Mr. Counsil has the baseball sickness. He has volunteered to help generations of kids learn the game all his life. Hamilton rewarded the gentleman's decency and kindness by taking him along to The House that Ruth Built for only the second time. Mr Counsil's first visit was the day that Don Larsen pitched a perfect game against the Dodgers in the 1956 World Series. Magic attends Mr. Counsil's visits to The Stadium.
They were a magic team. Josh Hamilton's opening round was awe inspiring. But tonight's blasts aren't even close to the best story about young Mr. Hamilton. Not even close.
Josh Hamilton was the first pick in the country in the 1999 draft. The then-Devil Rays took him. And he took his $4 million signing bonus and lost his mind. Some reports say that it took as many as 8 trips to rehab to help him find his way. And then he found God. Or, more properly put, he realized God was with him.
After three years of nothing related to baseball whatsoever, Hamilton started back. In this Roy Hobbs-comes-to-life story, the kid flew to the Majors. Tampa may regret it now, but can anyone blame them for being relieved when the Reds took him off their hands in the Rule 5 draft a couple of years ago? Then it was a decent year in Cincy, and a trade to Texas for Edinson Volquez. It really is cool when trades help both teams.
Now, Volquez is in the discussion for the National League's Cy Young Award, and Hamilton probably heads the list at this moment for the American League's Most Valuable Player Award.
Rick Reilly made sure, on the Worldwide Leader's broadcast of the Home Run Derby, that everyone knew that Josh's problem was with heroin. If he mentioned it once, he named it ten times. As usual, the greater insight was delivered by the inimitable Peter Gammons. He said that the great thing about Josh Hamilton's story is that we don't live in Nancy Reagan's world. (You know, "Just Say No!" A load of crap in the '80's; just the same today) We live in a world where a lot of kids are in trouble. And Josh Hamilton's is the kind of story that can inspire other young people who've lost their way to get back on track. Josh works for that every day out of gratitude to those who have helped him. Gammons always hits the nail on the head.
You're the winner, Josh! I don't really care how many homers you hit, or how many any of the other great players hit tonight. You're winning the battle every single day. You're smart enough to travel every step with a helper to be there when you feel those old pulls. You're dedicated enough to not put those who care about you in those old positions any more.
Reilly whined incessantly about your tattoos tonight, how they embarass you now, how it's just too physically painful to have them removed. Don't worry about them. Let them be markers for where you were, and where you are, and where you will never be again. Let them testify to the possibilities. Wear them as badges of honor and accomplishment.
And keep winning the game! You know, the Big One. Life.
One day at a time.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Why the Home Town Feeds the Soul!
After sweltering at AutoZone Park for the first five innings tonight, the roommate and I decided to forego the remainder of the game-and the Redbirds' late inning heroics that delivered a 3-1 win-to move on to the next portion of vacation entertainment: a Burnside at Ground Zero!
Tonight it was Cedric, a gifted drummer and singer, with his partner, Lightnin' Malcolm, a serious guitarist. Cedric Burnside is a grandson of the late legendary north Mississippi hill country bluesman, R.L. Burnside. R.L. and his musical soulmate, Junior Kimbrough, did plenty for us just leaving their collection of late-life trance boogie blues. But musicians of their power and vision don't die; they fertilize the souls of the young musicians that come after them. The best known purveyors of hill country stomp are the North Mississippi All Stars. The sons of James Luther Dickinson were blessed to grow up in the company of great musicians of every stripe, those their father played with, recorded with, and produced. They literally sat at the feet of Burnside and Kimbrough, and the ordination of these acolytes took. But alongside the All Stars are various children and grandchildren, especially among the Burnsides. Duwayne Burnside was the fourth NMA for several years, in the pattern of all those who claimed to be the fifth Beatle. Only Duwayne contributed.
Cedric and Malcolm are a two man band. They don't need any help. Malcolm's slide gets it done, and his finger picking provides a powerful bass line. Cedric takes care of the rest behind his kit. No vocal harmonies here, they double the lead vocal All Night Long. Seamlessly.
The Burnsides, and those who play with them, have IT in their bones. Jim Dickinson calls it World Boogie, and preaches that It Is Coming!
Taking out after John Lee Hooker's stomp and relentlessly driving beat, Burnside and Kimbrough refined it, made it hypnotic (connecting all the way back to the Moroccan trance/dance music at its core) and plugged it in.
The kids go even farther.
An evening spent listening to Cedric and Malcolm can give you hope that there is still a chance for humanity. Wars and economies and bad policies and worse politicians are all swept
away before the tidal wave of The Boogie. Hypocritical religion and vanity of every sort are wiped away. The joy in Staying is savored. The power in Surviving Josef Conrad's Horror is celebrated. The victory of Living In Spite of It All is proclaimed and relished.
Do your soul a favor, and get thee to a Burnside's side as fast as you can get there. It just might save your life, as it does mine everytime!
Tonight it was Cedric, a gifted drummer and singer, with his partner, Lightnin' Malcolm, a serious guitarist. Cedric Burnside is a grandson of the late legendary north Mississippi hill country bluesman, R.L. Burnside. R.L. and his musical soulmate, Junior Kimbrough, did plenty for us just leaving their collection of late-life trance boogie blues. But musicians of their power and vision don't die; they fertilize the souls of the young musicians that come after them. The best known purveyors of hill country stomp are the North Mississippi All Stars. The sons of James Luther Dickinson were blessed to grow up in the company of great musicians of every stripe, those their father played with, recorded with, and produced. They literally sat at the feet of Burnside and Kimbrough, and the ordination of these acolytes took. But alongside the All Stars are various children and grandchildren, especially among the Burnsides. Duwayne Burnside was the fourth NMA for several years, in the pattern of all those who claimed to be the fifth Beatle. Only Duwayne contributed.
Cedric and Malcolm are a two man band. They don't need any help. Malcolm's slide gets it done, and his finger picking provides a powerful bass line. Cedric takes care of the rest behind his kit. No vocal harmonies here, they double the lead vocal All Night Long. Seamlessly.
The Burnsides, and those who play with them, have IT in their bones. Jim Dickinson calls it World Boogie, and preaches that It Is Coming!
Taking out after John Lee Hooker's stomp and relentlessly driving beat, Burnside and Kimbrough refined it, made it hypnotic (connecting all the way back to the Moroccan trance/dance music at its core) and plugged it in.
The kids go even farther.
An evening spent listening to Cedric and Malcolm can give you hope that there is still a chance for humanity. Wars and economies and bad policies and worse politicians are all swept
away before the tidal wave of The Boogie. Hypocritical religion and vanity of every sort are wiped away. The joy in Staying is savored. The power in Surviving Josef Conrad's Horror is celebrated. The victory of Living In Spite of It All is proclaimed and relished.
Do your soul a favor, and get thee to a Burnside's side as fast as you can get there. It just might save your life, as it does mine everytime!
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Conflicted
I like being American. Oh, I cannot bear the George Bush/Dick Cheney vision of America, but they really aren't what we're about. Theirs is a perversion of who we are and what we aspire to. I want my children to be safe. I want my grandchildren to grow up like I did.
But how far does that desire go?
Budweiser is currently running a spot that portrays a group of soldiers going to, or coming home from, the wars. Spontaneously, all of the others passing through the airport, or working there, erupt into applause for these heroes. There is a closeup of a little red headed girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old. I wonder if anyone will tell her the truth?
The truth is that those young Americans, or at least the real ones the people in the ad depict, are in foreign lands to kill people in that little red headed girl's name. And mine. And yours. They are also very likely to be killed or maimed physically, and are surely to be wounded emotionally and psychologically and spiritually, in the process. Certainly they'll be left with images that will disturb their sleep for the rest of their lives.
And we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt or Bill O'Reilly rant, that because human beings are not perfect, some of those young Americans have made mistakes and killed groups of Iraqis holding wedding parties, racing to hospitals to have babies, acting strangely because they were scared, and on and on. And because weapons systems don't always work as advertised, there is often "collateral damage" in their wake. That's government for "we blew up people and stuff we didn't mean to hit."
I am a person whose sacred text says that in my faith there is no difference between "Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female." That's ancient Mediterranean for "American and Iraqi, American and Afghan, American and anything else." No difference.
And that same sacred text says that my God is no respector of persons, and "we are all sinners who have fallen short of the glory of God."
I have no particular righteousness for winning the lottery and being born in this place at this time. The only reason I believe that the Taliban, bin Laden, Hamas and the rest are wrong is because I see the world through eyes trained in the view from the western world. Had I been born in the West Bank, the slums of Jerusalem, Saudi Arabia or if an errant missile had killed my children in the name of democratizing my country, I'd see things exactly as those in that part of the world do.
History is written by the winners. The only reason that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, et al, are considered heroes is that England tired of fighting the war, Revolution to us, rebellion to them. Had George III had the desire to push the point, the great patriots would all be remembered as terrorists, executed for disturbing the peace.
By my faith, and by the reality of human history, I can't applaud any more. I can only ask that no one else kill in my name. Please, stop it!
I have family, friends, and parishoners that are all in the military services. I love and respect them all. Now, I only want them to come home safely to their families, and stop making me more important that all those other people who are children of God, made in God's own image, just like me. It's wrong. It needs to stop now.
But how far does that desire go?
Budweiser is currently running a spot that portrays a group of soldiers going to, or coming home from, the wars. Spontaneously, all of the others passing through the airport, or working there, erupt into applause for these heroes. There is a closeup of a little red headed girl, maybe 3 or 4 years old. I wonder if anyone will tell her the truth?
The truth is that those young Americans, or at least the real ones the people in the ad depict, are in foreign lands to kill people in that little red headed girl's name. And mine. And yours. They are also very likely to be killed or maimed physically, and are surely to be wounded emotionally and psychologically and spiritually, in the process. Certainly they'll be left with images that will disturb their sleep for the rest of their lives.
And we know, beyond a shadow of a doubt or Bill O'Reilly rant, that because human beings are not perfect, some of those young Americans have made mistakes and killed groups of Iraqis holding wedding parties, racing to hospitals to have babies, acting strangely because they were scared, and on and on. And because weapons systems don't always work as advertised, there is often "collateral damage" in their wake. That's government for "we blew up people and stuff we didn't mean to hit."
I am a person whose sacred text says that in my faith there is no difference between "Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female." That's ancient Mediterranean for "American and Iraqi, American and Afghan, American and anything else." No difference.
And that same sacred text says that my God is no respector of persons, and "we are all sinners who have fallen short of the glory of God."
I have no particular righteousness for winning the lottery and being born in this place at this time. The only reason I believe that the Taliban, bin Laden, Hamas and the rest are wrong is because I see the world through eyes trained in the view from the western world. Had I been born in the West Bank, the slums of Jerusalem, Saudi Arabia or if an errant missile had killed my children in the name of democratizing my country, I'd see things exactly as those in that part of the world do.
History is written by the winners. The only reason that George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, et al, are considered heroes is that England tired of fighting the war, Revolution to us, rebellion to them. Had George III had the desire to push the point, the great patriots would all be remembered as terrorists, executed for disturbing the peace.
By my faith, and by the reality of human history, I can't applaud any more. I can only ask that no one else kill in my name. Please, stop it!
I have family, friends, and parishoners that are all in the military services. I love and respect them all. Now, I only want them to come home safely to their families, and stop making me more important that all those other people who are children of God, made in God's own image, just like me. It's wrong. It needs to stop now.
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